


By Surprise

by SectoBoss



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: F/F, Post-expedition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 18:33:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6250846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SectoBoss/pseuds/SectoBoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before the reception for the expedition’s safe return, Tuuri has something to tell Sigrun. Sigrun’s been expecting something – but not something like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Surprise

**Author's Note:**

> I am still not sure what possessed me to write this. Ah well, behold my first foray into writing adult fiction!

I saw this coming, but you’ve still managed to catch me by surprise. 

What, you thought I hadn’t noticed? Ha! Give me some credit, girl. I’ve been doing this longer than you’ve been alive, I know _exactly_ how some people react to being cooped up with each other on cramped expeditions into hostile territory. Yeah, I saw the occasional glance you shot me, read your insistence at sitting next to me at mealtime for exactly what it was, caught you looking when I needed full decontamination that one time after a troll sicked up all over me. 

The rookie who get a crush on her commanding officer? Been there, done that, from both sides. 

And I was ready for you. All ready to hear your awkward confession one night when the guys were asleep. Ready to quietly, gently, but very _very_ firmly let you down. There are some things you don’t do out in the field. ‘Each other’ is one of them. Trust me, I’ve seen where it leads. You get distracted, sloppy, careless – and then the trolls take you. End of story. 

But we got back safe and sound and you never once said anything so I figured that was that. A mad dash to the coast after we awoke… gods, I still don’t have words for that thing. The quarantine ship, straight to Reykjavik. And now here we are, in the capital of the world. A feast for the silent world’s returning heroes, politicians and generals and celebrities lining up to shake our hands. I don’t think either of us had even heard of a hotel before they put us up in this place – the finest one in Iceland, if they’re to be believed. 

It’s not long until we’re all supposed to file downstairs and be paraded before the leaders of the world, and I’m sat here in this hotel room trying to work out which of these suits they’ve given me to wear makes me look the least like some ridiculous Swedish socialite. And then there’s a knock on the door. 

I stride across, still in a t-shirt and short trousers, the suits I can’t pick between all crumpled on the bed. Open the door and there you are. Look at you, all dressed up and ready to go! 

“Sigrun.” 

“Tuuri.” 

Don’t think I can’t see that look in your eyes, girl. 

_Here it comes,_ I think as I step back to let you in and you shut the door behind you. Got to admire your professionalism, kid. Waiting ‘til the mission is over to make your awkward confession. And of course, as we’re not in the field anymore, I suddenly have to wonder – _do_ I let you down, now we’re safe and sound? 

I can hear it now, in your accented Swedish. _“Sigrun, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you…”_ Come on, honey, let’s get it over with. I cross my arms and sit down on the bed, waiting for your blushing declaration, utterly unprepared for what happens next. 

That sleek black dress they gave you – again, the latest Swedish style, all silk and cotton – opens from the back. Opens from the back, slips off your shoulders and pools around your feet like oil. 

Trolls and giants? All in a day’s work. Vengeful spirits? Reeled with the punch and kept fighting. But this? I think this might be the first time I’ve been truly speechless since we met four months ago on the top deck of Øresund. By the look on your face you’ve realised that too, and you’re loving it. 

You’ve crossed the distance between us while I’m still starting to stand up, and before I can you’ve sat on my lap, your legs either side of mine, our chests together, your face with that wicked little grin mere inches from my wide eyes. 

“I was wondering,” comes that soft eastern lilt, “since the expedition’s over – do I still have to follow your orders?” 

The Sigrun I used to know would have fired off a snappy comeback but the last time I knew what was happening you were still knocking on my door. Ball’s on your court, honey. And you know what? I get the feeling you’re not going to drop it anytime soon. 

“Not if you don’t want to,” is all I manage to murmur as your hands find my shoulders and you use your weight to gently shove me back onto the bed. 

“Good.” There’s finality to that word. I get the sudden feeling that I might be following _your_ orders at this rate. But I don’t get too long to think that, because you close the distance those last few millimetres and kiss me. 

Okay, girl, _now_ I’m back on familiar ground. This is a war, of lips and tongues instead of blades and claws, and I pride myself on not losing my battles. There’s a brief scuffle as you try to beat experience with raw enthusiasm but I think you’re smart enough to see the writing on the wall. It doesn’t take you long to surrender, to let me in with a satisfied little hiss. Your teeth run smooth under my tongue as I raise my hands, knotting them through that grey hair that shimmers when the light catches it. 

We’re like that for a while and I begin to wonder if that’s it, that’s as far as you’re willing to take it on your own. I’m just ready to take charge – and I think you’d have liked what I had planned – when you break the kiss of your own accord and rear up lazily, keeping me pinned to the bed with your lower body as you rise. A tugging at my shirt and I raise my hands above my head like I’m about to take a dive into the fjords of home. Thin cotton comes up, blinds me briefly, and is tossed aside. Cool air plays across my breasts and belly. The same happens with my shorts, and then I’m as naked as you are. My hands drop back, onto you, finding the smooth skin of your back and slowly slipping down your spine, fingers nudging the vertebrae and drawing a sharp little gasp from your half-open mouth when they slip even lower. 

A thought occurs to me as we pause for half a second, my hands on your buttocks, yours just starting to creep up the muscles of my stomach towards my chest. The last time I was like this – on my back, legs crooked, eyes wide, some strange predatory animal looming over me – was that time two days before we hit the coast. When that troll we all thought was dead proved us all so very wrong. That thing had looked at me like you’re looking at me now. Triumphant and hungry. The comparison makes me snort with laughter. 

With that troll my hand came up full of steel and I opened its throat even as it dug its claws into me – _oh gods,_ right where your fingertips are now, soft hands ghosting over tender scars, _yes_ , – but now I’m more helpless than I ever was facing that thing and I don’t do a damn thing about it. Now my hand leaves your back and comes round, tender but firm, hooking you round the shoulders and pulling you back down. 

The height difference between us means your head fits almost perfectly between the curve of my jaw and the slope of my breasts. I can feel that soft tuft of unruly hair you’ve never been able to get under control tickle the hollow just behind my jawbone. Hot breath wisps over my collarbones. Heat and moisture, a lingering kiss on the side of my neck. 

Once again I move to take the initiative and once again you’re one step ahead of me. I’m trying to lever you up for another kiss, craning my neck down slightly and my hand on your arse trying to shunt you upwards towards me, but you slip out of my grasp. That thin stream of hot air from your mouth travels downwards. A trail of licks and kisses follows it, little puddles of wet on my dry skin. Breasts, nipples, stomach, navel, further, lower. You catch my eye from between my legs and I’m a little alarmed that the cheerful girl who drove us around the ruins of Denmark can sport a smile that wicked. 

And then you get to work and _gods above_ , honey, _where_ did you learn how to do all this? All I can do is gasp, try and keep my voice down, don’t really want anyone else to hear this – although a part of me thinks _let them hear, the world needs to know what it’s been missing!_ Can all Finns do this? Is _this_ what they meant when I heard they can all do magic? 

The next few minutes are a delicious eternity that’s over all too quickly. And of course, I give as good as I get, honey. Better, in fact. There are plenty who’ll testify to that – living and dead. But I leave the boasting for another day, you’ve given me more important things to do with my lips. And by the sound the half-formed words you’re able to get out in between moans, clutching the bedding with wild hands, squirming beneath me, I’d say I do the job properly. 

When we’re finished with each other we lie there for a while, a messy tangle of legs and arms, our faces close enough that we’re inhaling each other’s breath. You mumble something I don’t catch. 

“What?” 

“I said, I wish we could just stay like this-” 

Ah, here we go. It’s time for the empty promises. I remember making a few when I was your age. 

“Tuuri.” Better use your name, got to emphasise this, it’s important. “You know we can’t. Right?” 

In a day or two the boats will come, one to Dalsnes and one to Pori, and there’s every chance the two of us will never see each other again. That’s just how it goes. But you seem to get it. “I know, I know,” your voice full of longing. “Even so…” And you trail off, knowing deep down what has to happen. 

One last kiss – you taste different from when we started, richer and warmer – and we separate. 

You were smart. You left your dress on the floor and all you have to do is dust it off a bit and you’re ready to go. But I didn’t move those suits from the bed and after what we’ve put them through they’re a mess. Crumpled and stinking of sweat. One of the skirts has even been torn, I don’t know which of us did that. I’ll have to say I caught it on something as I tried it on. 

I pick out the least ruined set, a navy blue number that looks like it was originally designed for a man. White shirt, blue trousers, blue jacket – I look like an admiral. All I need is one of those stupid hats with an anchor on it. And no, Tuuri, you don’t have to help me put the shirt on – oh, you insist, do you? Good gods, girl, you’re insatiable. We’d better not be late. 

In the end we are a bit late and I have to dream up an inventive cover story about helping Tuuri pick out a dress to wear. It turns out that we needn’t have worried. The boys are late too, even later than we are, all three of them turning up at once, Emil and Lalli red-faced and with varying degrees of messy hair. And I think I spot a bite mark on Reynir’s neck as he hurriedly closes the collar of his shirt. I think I’ll leave any questions about what happened _there_ pointedly unasked. 

Only Mikkel’s on time, already playing meet-and-greet with the big names in Scandinavia. He gives us all a look that says _I see right through you_ as we come down the hotel’s stairs. I shoot him one back that I really hope says _yeah, well not all of us have a husband waiting for us back home on the farm._ He smiles and looks away. 

The party’s a whirlwind of important names I can’t remember. I eat too much, drink too much and probably talk too much as well. I vaguely remember showing the Prime Minister of Sweden how best to judo tackle a troll, using an unwilling volunteer who later turns out to be her husband. I try some old-world singing contest the Icelanders preserved – called karaoke, I’m told – with Admiral Olsen, and I think it’ll be a few days before my ears forgive me for that foolishness. 

It’s almost dawn by the time I’m staggering back to my hotel room, supported by a pair of hands that are as unsteady as I feel. I collapse through my door, kick it shut behind me, and am not entirely surprised to find you, Tuuri Hotakainen, have come in with me. 

“Like you said,” you say, your words slurred by the alcohol you’ve been drinking. Trying to match Trond Andersen shot-for-shot was not a good idea. The man’s legendary. “The boat… the boat won’t be for a day or two yet.” 

Gods save me from trolls and Finns. At least this time I remember to take my clothes off the bed.


End file.
